


It's Never Quite As It Seems

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Love Language is Creating Opportunities for Acts of Service, Crowley's Love Language is Acts of Service (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fellas Is It Gay to Make Your Hereditary Enemy a Bespoke Bed?, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Miscommunication, Sleep, The Anthony Crowley Center for Angels Who Can't Sleep Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27989130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: "It'll be great! I know allll the tricksss," he insisted. "I'll get you sorted. You'll be counting celestial sheep in no time. My gift to you, now that we're retired. Retirement's made for a lie-in."While it would be a stretch to say that Aziraphale'sgoodsense caught up with him in that moment, some amount of higher brain function kicked in and started frantically underliningpossibilities.ORCrowley offers to teach Aziraphale how to sleep. Shenanigans and a whole heap of unaddressed anxieties ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 308
Collections: Apple-bottom Jorts, Good Omens OTP Prompts Event Works, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	It's Never Quite As It Seems

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Good Omens OTP Prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/GO_OTP_Prompts) event hosted by [GO-Events](https://go-events.tumblr.com/). Thanks as always to [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi) for hosting such fun events and such a supportive server! Thanks as well to my beta for this fic, [RainingPrince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince)!
> 
> My prompt was "Aziraphale can't sleep without Crowley by their side." :3

"Pfft, you dunno know how'ta sleep," Crowley slurred with so much patronizing scorn Aziraphale was tempted to fall unconscious just to spite him. That might have been the wine's influence.

"Jus' because you like to sloth doesn't mean I can't," Aziraphale said with grave dignity, then scrunched his face. "Wait…"

Crowley leaned precariously forward from his perch at the edge of the sofa and reached out a wavering finger. "Shh, shhhh, angel, shh. Don't have to pretend 'nymore. S'fine. I don't care if you don't know how to sleep."

"I know how to _sleep_ ," Aziraphale insisted, drumming his fist on his thigh in emphatic punctuation. Since his fist also held the stem of his wine glass, this also resulted in an emphatic spritz of a very nice red all over his waistcoat and trousers. "Oh, now look what you've made me do," he lamented, pawing at the purplish spots.

Crowley pulled his face into an exaggerated pout. "I'll miracle it for you. Later. When I can feel m'fingers again. Anyway, I could teach you."

Aziraphale looked up at him blearily. "To _miracle_?" he asked with righteous indignation.

"To _sleep_." By this point Crowley was leaning so far forward it stretched credulity to say he was sitting on the sofa any longer.

"I _told_ you—"

"It'll be great! I know allll the tricksss," he insisted. "I'll get you sorted. You'll be counting celestial sheep in no time. My gift to you, now that we're retired. Retirement's made for a lie-in."

While it would be a stretch to say that Aziraphale's _good_ sense caught up with him in that moment, some amount of higher brain function kicked in and started frantically underlining _possibilities_.

"You'll teach me to sleep?" he asked, mind suddenly flooded with visions of silk pajamas, cast-aside sunglasses, bodies gently reclined, and Crowley murmuring sweet or at least restful somethings into his ear. Oh, yes, there were a lot of possibilities lurking here.

"Absolutely."

He fiddled with the stem of his glass. "I wouldn't want to put you out," he said and winced at how the wine and habit made it sound more coy than sincere. It wasn't so long ago that they'd had a handful of mortifyingly awkward conversations wherein they'd done their best to bury the hatchet under a stone engraved "our side." And while he thought Crowley would probably roll his eyes if he were to voice his plan out loud, he was still resolved, however fuzzily in this precise moment, to make fewer demands on his friend and to show more care.

"No trouble at all, angel," Crowley said with a flop of his hand.

Aziraphale squinted at him. Was this…?

"I suppose… if you would _like_ to..." he said doubtfully, groping around the edges of whatever was happening to check for layers. Was this just an opportunity for mischief and lightly poking fun, or did Crowley genuinely want to do this?

Crowley redirected the clumsy flight path of his hand to press it against his chest and said solemnly, "It would be my honor to help you on your way to committing some proper sloth."

Well, if he was going to insist… Perhaps this was a chance for Aziraphale to indulge Crowley for once. It was also a very tidy excuse for them to spend yet more time together. In his inebriated state, he also concluded that it was a very short distance between Crowley teaching him to sleep and them sleeping _together_ , which sounded absolutely lovely.

After all, it had been several millennia since he'd last tried sleep; a little refresher course from a master couldn't hurt. And he did like all the trappings of a bedtime routine: changing into soft, cozy clothing, slipping on… slippers, having a warm cup of something soothing, evening ablutions. Not to mention, beds had a _lot_ more to recommend them these days now that humans had invented clever things like pocket coils and memory foam.

"Fine." He transferred the wine glass to the desk and leaned over his legs to meet Crowley somewhere in the middle. "When do we start?"

* * *

Crowley eyed Aziraphale's sleep ensemble suspiciously. He'd opted for a linen nightshirt with a blue pinstripe pattern, matching nightcap, and house slippers.

"When did you buy all this?" Crowley demanded.

Aziraphale preened. "Aren't they in wonderful condition? Hardly any miracles required." This was only because the nightshirt had soaked up all the angelic delight and hope saturating the wardrobe and channeled it into keeping its weave fresh for nearly two centuries in the desperate wish it might actually be slept in one day.

"Why do you own nightclothes if you don't—no, never mind. I suppose I should be grateful we can cross that step off the list. All right, show me the bed."

"How forward of you, my dear," Aziraphale murmured, overdoing a coquettish flutter of his lashes to cover that he was, in point of fact, a tiny bit scandalized.

Crowley tried to make a face and clear his throat in the same motion and ended up looking like he was choking on a sneeze.

"Oh, shut up, angel," he rasped, "you know what I mean."

After only a moment of hesitation, Aziraphale dutifully led Crowley up to his studio flat via the back staircase that only sometimes remembered it existed behind the storage cupboard door. Nerves had been plucking at his corporation's pulse ever since he opened up his wardrobe earlier in the evening and sorted through what he knew was more sleepwear options than were strictly sensible for a being who didn't himself sleep. He knew what it would look like, and he hovered somewhere between pleased anticipation and discorporating terror at the discovery.

When they entered, he stood aside and gave a jerky nod toward the frightfully optimistic double-sized bed frame he'd purchased after acquiring the shop. The navy blue linen sheets and matching quilt were just as old and well kept, but the mattress he'd updated every half century or so.

Crowley circled the bed, observing the simple oak frame stained dark walnut. A pair of outstretched wings carved into the rectangular headboard were the only ornamentation. The quilt was understated, with navy squares inset with ivory-colored starbursts framed by a wide, velveteen border. Aziraphale had commissioned it from a darling "spinster" couple who had from the first (true) opening day of his shop liked to browse and share neighborhood gossip but not purchase anything.

Abruptly, Crowley flung himself across the bed, twisting midair so he landed on his back, arms flung out beside him.

"Angel," he said as he stared at the ceiling.

"Yes?"

"This mattress is new."

"Oh, yes." He twisted his fingers together before his belly. "I believe I had that one delivered only a few years ago."

"And the frame and quilt… not your usual style, hmm?"

Aziraphale shrugged rather than agree, feeling his face start to warm uncomfortably before he sternly reminded his corporation there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He'd made the arrangements over two centuries ago; there was no use getting flustered now.

Crowley angled his face toward Aziraphale, swallowed visibly, and took a deep breath. "Angel, who's this bed for?"

He wandered closer and ran delicate fingers over the edge of the quilt so he wouldn't have to look at Crowley.

"Guests."

"Aziraphale."

He huffed an annoyed breath. "The sofa is hardly comfortable if some evening someone were to be too deep in their cups to get home safely. I thought it practical to have a ready alternative."

Crowley was silent long enough Aziraphale was compelled to look up. The demon had an unbearably soft tilt to his eyebrows. "Since…?"

This was an important truth to share with Crowley, Aziraphale sternly reminded himself. Tangible and hopefully persuasive proof of emotions perhaps unsaid but not unfelt going back further than he thought Crowley believed most days.

He forced himself to meet Crowley's gaze. "Not long after I opened the shop."

There was a pause just long enough for Crowley's eyebrows to inch up toward his hairline. "I slept on that damn sofa opening night," he observed.

Aziraphale squirmed and had to go back to admiring the clever patterning of the quilt. "Yes, well… I may have been inspired by how uncomfortable you looked." He flicked Crowley a mildly censorious look from under his lashes. "You never did stay over again."

Crowley shrugged. "Thought you might kick up a fuss about it not being safe. And that sofa is _really_ uncomfortable for sleeping."

"We don't have to worry about safety anymore," Aziraphale murmured. "Or not as much. If… if you ever need a kip—you _are_ welcome to come up, you know."

A gurgle of vowels clogged in Crowley's throat before he nodded.

Feeling both emboldened and a little lightheaded from all the honesty, Aziraphale sat down on the end of the bed. In a wildly exaggerated display of Newtonian laws of motion, the moment Aziraphale's weight depressed the mattress, Crowley bounced up off the bed and began pacing around the limited confines of the flat. Aziraphale was uncharitably put in mind of a goth flamingo.

"Right, so, sleeping," Crowley said at a volume much too loud for the small space. "Nothing to it, really. Got your bed, got your comfortable outfit. Now it's just down to lying flat and turning your brain off." He winced with his whole mouth and pulled his sunglasses off. "That might be a trick, considering your, uh..."

"My what?" Aziraphale asked repressively, still feeling stung at Crowley's frenetic retreat from the bed.

"All your clever bits, upstairs," Crowley was quick to put in, gesturing first at his own head and then toward Aziraphale's. "Always ticking over with thoughts and, er, whatnot, up there. Like the Bentley doing ninety through London. Got to get you to downshift so you can put it into park and safely turn it off."

Aziraphale considered being put out by Crowley having the poor manners to even obliquely mention Aziraphale's city-sized anxiety issues. But, on the whole, from what he remembered of his previous attempts at sleep, it wasn't an inaccurate metaphor, and he was begrudgingly charmed that Crowley would compare him to his beloved car.

He made an agreeable noise, stood, and rounded to the head of the bed so he could begin turning it down. "I understand one is supposed to relax and empty the mind. Or at the very least, to focus on one's breathing."

"See? You have it," Crowley said, bouncing up on the balls of his feet. "Probably don't even need me here."

Aziraphale looked up in alarm. "Oh, but…" He floundered for an excuse. "I want to be sure I'm doing it properly, of course. And I won't be able to know, since I'll be asleep."

"You want me to watch you sleep?" Crowley didn't sound nearly as censorious as Aziraphale thought the request rightly deserved, hearing it said back so baldly. He expected it was the spooky fan enthusiasm leaking out.

"If you would be so kind," he agreed, because he might as well embrace whatever this harebrained charade was they were tangled in.

Crowley nodded and made a beeline to the squashy wingback Aziraphale had in the corner for when he felt like wandering upstairs to read. He settled into it and leaned forward with elbows on knees, dangling his sunglasses from his fingers.

"All right, angel. Get cozy," he commanded.

Aziraphale repressed the urge to roll his eyes and arranged himself beneath the top sheet and quilt with his hands folded over his belly.

"There we are," he said, closing his eyes. "Quite cozy."

"Good, good. Now… try imagining yourself somewhere you can totally let go and relax. Just—try not to imagine _too_ hard. Don't want you accidentally miracling yourself into a bathtub full of cocoa or something."

"Crowley."

"Right, shutting up."

Aziraphale wriggled his shoulders further into the mattress and resettled his head on the pillow.

Something relaxing.

He visualized himself sitting in his favorite armchair in the shop, an engrossing book in one hand and cocoa (however on-the-nose it was) in the other. Snug in his favorite housecoat, something softly baroque playing on the gramophone, and Crowley sprawled on the sofa with mobile in hand exactly where Aziraphale could see him.

It was indeed an incredibly relaxing visualization and easy to immerse himself in. This was likely because it wasn't too far from most evenings he'd spent with Crowley in the past few weeks now that the unapocalyptic dust had settled.

He wondered, and then worried, whether, if the visualization worked, he'd start to develop a conditioned response and begin feeling sleepy any time he tried to read in that very common scenario. That would _not_ be ideal. Then again, could angels even develop conditioned responses? His corporation, however comfortable he found it, was not actually him, after all. One _could_ view it as him programming his corporation, however. The acts of sleep and relaxing while reading and sipping cocoa were both very visceral, corporeal experiences. And it hadn't escaped his notice that Crowley had developed something of a Pavlovian response to Aziraphale making doe eyes at him—and angels and demons were, after all, of the same original stock.

On the other hand, one could argue that the back-and-forth of him giving a specific look to Crowley and Crowley indulging whatever veiled request Aziraphale had just made not as habituated cause and effect but rather active communication. An intimate shorthand they'd developed to allow him to ask for things too dangerous to say aloud, just as he'd learned to decipher the semaphoric twitches of Crowley's eyebrows and mouth when Crowley was hoping for divine intervention to mitigate infernal fallout. It wasn't always a perfect language, but it had served them tolerably well for going on several centuries now. It felt quite natural now to speak around something and then make beseeching eyes at Crowley, or to hear a certain lilt in Crowley's tone and then check the clearance between his sunglasses and eyebrows to confirm whether the lilt was a plea. They were both rather comfortable with the mode.

But he couldn't discount that it was a rather limited form of communication, as these things went—subject to the strictures of their circumstances and therefore prone to misinterpretation. For example, he had thought by agreeing to this farce that he was perhaps indulging Crowley's desire for an excuse to be closer, and therefore by extension his own desire for the same. But the way Crowley had fled from him earlier suggested perhaps he wasn't as interested in reaching out as Aziraphale had thought.

Was this exercise, perhaps, Crowley simply indulging what he thought was Aziraphale's desire? Had… had Aziraphale turned pleading eyes on Crowley at some point during the drunken rambling that had brought them to the topic of sleep?

The idea made his chest clench.

There wasn't much difference between making calf eyes and doe eyes, after all. It was possible he'd just been feeling soppy and Crowley had taken it for an unspoken request.

He raked the rather pickled memories he had of that evening for clues.

Why had they started talking about sleeping anyway?

"Angel, if you wind yourself up any tighter, you're going to reach critical mass and collapse in on yourself," Crowley drawled from the corner. "Are you still doing the visualization? Something relaxing?"

Oh, right. The visualization.

* * *

"Tea!" Crowley cried a short time later, brandishing an electric kettle that had been very surprised to find itself living in Aziraphale's meager cupboard space in the kitchenette. "A nice, relaxing cup of, er, what is it. Valerie? Valium? Valerian!"

"I thought chamomile was traditional."

"Yeah, but it tastes—and smells—like watered-down cat piss."

Aziraphale was still sitting in the bed, per Crowley's instruction. He'd tried a few more attempts at visualization but couldn't seem to keep his thoughts from spiraling. It wasn't unexpected: One of the reasons he'd decided sleep was more trouble than it was worth ages ago was the amount of work it took him to settle in. So, he wasn't overly bothered by _one_ failed attempt. Crowley, however, insisted he needed to "keep thinking sleepy thoughts" and stay cozy while he tried the next trick in his arsenal—as though leaving the bed might undo whatever work they'd already put in.

Crowley pulled down one of the white angel-wing mugs that seemed to breed when Aziraphale's back was turned and then an infuser ball and a tin of loose leaf tea. Aziraphale's not-truly-British-but-close-enough soul felt this was a bit flash for a late-night cuppa, never mind that he didn't own either the infuser or the tin in the first place.

Watching Crowley bustle about, Aziraphale tried to simply enjoy being cared for. But unease from his earlier musing lingered, curling in his lungs and making his fingers twitch and fret at the seams of the quilt. Crowley seemed to be enjoying himself, but like a weed the thought that Crowley was doing this out of some perceived obligation rather than for his own ineffable reasons dug in anxious roots and refused to be plucked out. He didn't want Crowley here as a favor or out of some sense of duty. He wanted Crowley to be here simply because he cared to be, because he liked to share space and laughter and belonging with Aziraphale.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he blurted, fingers twisted tight enough to ache.

Crowley looked up from squinting contemplation of the steeping tea and stared at Aziraphale for a long moment before narrowing his eyes.

"Giving up, angel?" His tone was dripping with faux sympathy, but there was a mocking slant to his pinched brow. "That's all right. Can't all of us be champion sleepers. Suppose I'll continue to shoulder the honor on my own."

Insufferable. Absolutely insufferable.

"Sleeping is not a sport."

"Sure it is. Do you know how finicky these things are if you try to get them to go longer than twelve or thirteen hours at a time?" He gestured emphatically at his corporation. "Got to condition them. Build muscle memory. If you don't want to accidentally slip into a coma, I mean." A poorly suppressed wince hinted at past mishaps.

"Oh, just, bring me the tea," Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes.

Crowley's saunter was even smugger than usual as he crossed the room and extended the cup, contents gently steaming, for Aziraphale to take. His projected confidence was rather undercut, however, when he flinched away from the brush of Aziraphale's fingers when he reached back. Aziraphale tried to tell himself it was merely a reaction to the heat of the near-boiling liquid finally seeping through the surface of the mug. He couldn't quite believe it.

* * *

The porcelain bathtub is a pond, and in the pond there are ducks.

"Do they have ears?" he asks, and a faceless demon makes a whinging production of removing the ducks.

Why must he make such a fuss? Always demanding special treatment. Doesn't he know he's in trouble?

"Yes," he says.

"If you are a demon, you will get in," Prince Beezlebub drones from zir throne, implacable and so close to the sides of the tub that Aziraphale worries about splashing them when he climbs in. Zir boots look like they might be damaged by the moisture, and he's here to get Crowley out of trouble, not into more.

"Well, I certainly cannot be an angel," Aziraphale says, frantic.

They mustn't find out.

"I need to take off these clothes," he insists because he must take good care of Crowley's things; Crowley is counting on him.

Now they're all around him, pressed in close but not touching, watching in silent judgement as he hunches and removes Crowley's clothes, layer by layer. There isn't a clean place on the ground for him to set them and he frets. But, no, there is his fuzzy tophat. He upends it and tucks Crowley's clothes and watch and chain and glasses inside. If he were to put the hat on, he could disappear them like a magic trick.

The water ripples and steams faintly under the heavy gaze of so many demons clustered close. When Aziraphale peers in, his own face is reflected. He looks around in a panic to see if anyone else has noticed. No one has seen, thankfully, but they could discover the trick at any moment. He should get in quickly to blur the image.

He clambers in, clumsy, and the water doesn't feel wet, but it is intensely cold.

So righteously cold, it burns.

He is burning.

"No!" he yells, trying to climb back out and frantically wipe the water from Crowley's arms and chest at the same time. Wiping only spreads the water so it seeps more quickly into freckled skin.

"Know your place," Michael says and blocks him from getting out.

Crowley's corporation is dissolving around him. He can feel his essence slipping free, and he grasps futility at his own arms—Crowley's arms—to try to stop it. But he's rising up inexorably, out of Crowley, out of Hell, hoisted by an implacable holy tether.

"Stop!" he sobs, grabbing at Crowley's hands, which are melting and misting like dry ice in a thermos.

Crowley looks up at him from within the water, fear and betrayal burning in his sulphur-bright eyes. When he opens his mouth to scream, Aziraphale hears it not from below but from above on high, echoing off radiant glass and cold marble.

Then, the water is still again, empty and cold, and he is filled with the unshakable certainty that Crowley is gone, and it is his fault.

* * *

Aziraphale lurched upright with a sob lodged in his throat. The room was shadow-filled and warm, and for a disorienting moment he thought he was still down Below. The weight of the quilt on his legs and the soft nap of the velveteen border under his hands grounded him somewhat. He was in his bedroom, not Hell. A small, rational part of his mind catalogued the fact like throwing an anchor into the roiling waves of devastation still rocking him.

"Crowley?" he half shouted, half sobbed.

There was a jerk of movement and a snort from the corner of the room. When he turned, he found Crowley straightening from a slumped position in the wingback chair of his reading nook.

"Hnngh?" Crowley responded, tone rising in agitation as he scrambled to his feet. "What's wrong?" he demanded, voice raspy and muffled.

Aziraphale stared at him, trying to logic away the still-resonant feeling that Crowley was gone by ruthlessly cataloguing the rumpled physicality of the demon's presence: the lopsided tuft of his chair-flattened hair, the pale gleam of his bare arms in the darkness, the fumbling motions of his hands as he rubbed at his face.

It wasn't working very well.

"Come here. Please," he demanded, hoarse, only slightly surprised to find his hand was already outstretched, fingers straining.

Crowley blinked hard, once, face scrunching all over as he clearly tried to shake off his own sleep, but he didn't object. He shuffled closer until he could grasp the hand reaching for him.

"Angel?" he asked, softer this time as he seemed to realize there wasn't any immediate danger.

Aziraphale gripped Crowley's hand tight, first in a clasp and then twisting to entwine their fingers when the sense memory of water evaporating from his skin assaulted him.

"My dear, I'm afraid I'm going to need you to sit here beside me for a moment," he admitted in as level of a tone as he could manage. "If you wouldn't mind," he added when his anxiety immediately retaliated with memories of Crowley's earlier skittishness.

"Yeah, sure," Crowley muttered, shuffling closer without hesitation and slumping onto the edge of the bed, folding one leg up to rest on top of the quilt and leaving the other on the floor as a brace.

The position allowed Aziraphale to shift closer and press their shoulders together. Their clasped hands he tucked in against his own chest.

If he thought he could get away with it, he would have hauled up Crowley bodily and cuddled him close like a gangly teddy bear, but it seemed to lack a certain dignity—now that the dream was receding enough that he could remember he had any—and he couldn't shake the thought that Crowley was only indulging what had to be a screamingly obvious need. Later, he might be capable of judging how rationale that assumption was. Just now, however, he didn't think he was capable of anything more than sitting, breathing, and trying to convince his corporation not to tremble as he greedily grasped what closeness Crowley was willing to endure for his sake.

After a long moment of silence, Crowley croaked out, "Bad dream?"

Aziraphale, not trusting what might come out of his mouth if he were to open it, hummed an assent.

"Those are shite," the demon agreed, already sounding drowsy again. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn and scratched at his neck. "Think you can go back to sleep?"

Aziraphale shook his head once, sharp.

Something about the motion seemed to jar Crowley out of his half-asleep stupor. The muscles in his arm tensed subtly, and he sounded much more alert when he asked, "Cocoa?"

"Sounds lovely," Aziraphale rasped.

"All right." Crowley stood back up and tugged on their clasped hands. "Come on, angel. I won't even use a miracle to make it."

Crowley didn't complain when he had to make the cocoa one-handed, or that Aziraphale hovered inconveniently close the entire time. When Aziraphale hesitated over returning to the bed, Crowley didn't comment, just led them back down the stairs into the bookshop proper. When they finally made it to the sofa, he slid down to the end so there would be room for Aziraphale to sit beside him. And, when Aziraphale did settle down, mug clutched in his free hand, Crowley was the one to snug back up so they sat pressed together, shoulder to knee.

"You can tell me, if you want," he said quietly. "It could help."

Aziraphale considered before pressing his lips tight for a moment. "Maybe another time," he lied.

Craven creature that he was, he leaned hard into Crowley's side, soaking up the stubborn corporeality of his body, the slithery darkness of his aura.

"Whatever you need, angel," Crowley murmured, voice hushed.

Aziraphal fought not to hear it as an accusation.

* * *

It had all become rather a lot, Aziraphale thought, sat as he was in his bed with an assortment of pillows and bolsters, a steaming cup of warm milk on the bedside table, the room warmly glowing via the nearby salt lamp, and the mournful softness of whale songs playing from a speaker Crowley presumably had tucked away somewhere.

And yet, as he looked to where Crowley skulked, as ever, in the wingback across the room, he couldn't help thinking it wasn't nearly enough.

"Seventh time's the charm," Crowley said, like he was invoking a ritual. His hair was peakier than usual with all the tugging it had endured as he'd arranged tonight's attempt.

Aziraphale didn't think the flagrant abuse of the idiom warranted more than a chiding look.

"What?" Crowley squawked, though softly, perhaps in deference to the rather aggressively relaxing stage he'd set. "Seven's a lucky number. Holy, even. Downright ethereally portentous, it is."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and tried not to read too much into Crowley dragging what had become such loaded descriptors into the conversation. It hadn't been so long ago, after all, that they'd lobbed those sorts of jibes at each other's feet like fun snaps, and old habits were difficult to break—as the saying went and as he was mortifyingly living out via this charade.

"I'm not sure it's worth all this trouble, you know," he said, unable to keep all the crankiness from his tone. "Sleeping, I mean," he hastened to clarify. The last thing he wanted was Crowley to think he was ungrateful for his efforts.

Since the first attempt and the nightmare, he hadn't managed to fall asleep again, and Crowley had resorted to doing actual _research_. But with each failed attempt, Aziraphale had become impossibly more anxious about the next so that, by now, even though his room was a veritable sleep spa, he could feel a tension headache trying to assert itself through his determination to ignore it. The whole endeavor was becoming, perhaps ironically, exhausting.

"Oh, sleeping is grand," Crowley insisted. "Besides, I've seen you drift off in a sunbeam in the middle of reading before. More of a doze than a proper sleep, I'll give you, but you seemed to like it. Now, imagine that, but long enough for your corporation to do a proper reboot! You'll feel like a whole new angel, promise."

Aziraphale eyed the side of the bed he'd been consistently, and he felt conspicuously, leaving empty with every attempt. It was the one stubborn hope that kept him agreeing to each increasingly manic relaxation idea Crowley had: He wasn't quite ready to let go of the fantasy of them sleeping _together_.

Because even as Aziraphale was becoming more anxious with each attempt, Crowley was becoming less twitchy about incidental touches. To the point where Aziraphale thought, maybe, perhaps, it was down more to nerves than discomfort that Crowley sometimes ran a little hot and cold on the matter of physical closeness.

Of course, Aziraphale still hadn't worked up the gumption to suggest Crowley join him.

Maybe with a successful sleep under his belt, he'd find the nerve.

"I suppose one last try can't hurt," he said.

"That's the spirit," Crowley drawled.

Aziraphale wriggled down under the quilt and newly installed weighted blanket. The memory foam pillow with cooling inserts cradled his head and neck, and the bolster under his knees blessed his spine with perfect alignment. He was perfectly comfortable, and the room was perfectly relaxing. And yet, he was hyperalert. Formless anxieties lurked in the back of his mind even as he refused to acknowledge their shadows.

"I can hear you thinking," Crowley griped. "S'like a phone left off the hook two rooms over, dial tone going double-time."

Aziraphale huffed out an annoyed breath. "I am trying my best. Do you think I enjoy how—how persistent it can be?" He bit down on the rest. Crowley didn't need to hear his whinging, not when _he_ was doing _his_ best to help.

"What if—"

When Crowley didn't go on, Aziraphale turned his head to look over at him. He was looking back, but seemed to be meeting his gaze only by the grimmest of determination.

"What if…?" he prompted.

"Look, there was this thing I used to do with Warlock, when he couldn't get to sleep."

From the flat set of his mouth, Aziraphale would have thought he was about to suggest a light spot of torture. Except, Crowley had always been embarrassingly tender with their charge.

Ah, perhaps therein lay the hesitation.

"I'm willing to give almost anything a try," he said, too honest by half.

"Ngk. All right. Well. Um, turn over onto your front, then. I'll just, ah…" He jerked to his feet and shuffled toward the bed like a shoddy puppeteer had control of his strings.

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat as he watched him approach, wide-eyed with the nearly incandescent hope that Crowley might be joining him. Then, Crowley was making an impatient rolling motion with his hand, and he jerked out of his stupor and moved to comply with the request.

Once he'd repositioned himself, the bolster, and the quilts and blankets to his satisfaction, Crowley slowly sat down on the empty half of the bed. Aziraphale regarded him with what he hoped was a look of polite curiosity, but feared tipped too far in the direction of stunned woodland creature. He unconsciously held his breath as Crowley shifted to face the headboard, tucking one leg up on the bed but still leaving the other over the side. What, Aziraphale thought wildly, could he do to entice him to commit fully to getting on the bed without having to actually voice the request out loud?

He was so focused on where Crowley's far leg disappeared over the horizon of the bed, he had to suppress a flinch when something pressed against his back.

"Oh!"

"No good?" Crowley asked, already pulling his hand away.

"No—no! You just surprised me, my dear, that's all," Aziraphale rushed to say. "Soothing touch! Yes, that sounds just the ticket. Jolly good idea. Please, do, proceed posthaste." He closed his mouth so sharply, his teeth audibly clacked.

There was a beat of near unbearable silence before he felt the firm press of Crowley's hand on his back again.

"You're all right, angel," he murmured. "Just… focus on me—my hand."

Then, he was moving his hand up and down over Aziraphale's back in broad, slow sweeps of his hand. Even muffled by the quilt and blanket, Aziraphale could feel the warmth of it. The pressure was soothing, anchoring. He could imagine with every pass from the tops of his shoulders down to the small of his back Crowley was smoothing down his anxiously curling edges. Or perhaps slowly warming up the tight clench of him so he could be coaxed to spread more easily across the bed. Like butter on toast. Or scented oil into thirsty skin.

"Do you like it?" Crowley whispered.

"I do," he slurred and promptly melted into sleep.

* * *

They're dining at the Ritz. Caviar and crostini, cake and champagne, chocolate and coffee, contentment and Crowley. Aziraphale knows they're discussing something, but from the curve of Crowley's mouth he knows it isn't anything important. Instead, he indulges himself with good food and company. He holds out choice morsels at the end of a fork or spoon for Crowley and feels near to bursting with happiness each time his dear friend leans forward to accept his offerings.

The meal lingers until Crowley breaks open a fresh loaf of brioche, tears off a generous bite, and dips it in the oil and herbs on the table. He raises it to Aziraphale's mouth with a somber set to his mouth.

"Do you promise to always let me tempt you?"

"I do," Aziraphale replies and takes the bite eagerly.

"Then why don't you treat me like a proper husband?" Crowley demands.

Aziraphale flusters and hastens to straighten their silverware. Were they married? He doesn't remember a ceremony or vows. Did he forget to go? Was there a memo that he misplaced? He is frightfully absentminded about his post. But, oh, certainly Crowley would have told him if they'd entered into a different arrangement? He can't imagine _he_ would have had the courage to propose, after all.

"I am so sorry, my dear, but when did we get married? I can't seem to remember."

"We vowed to protect each other from harm. We were of one flesh," Crowley insists. "Sanctified in water and purified by flame."

"Oh, is that what we did?" he squeaks.

"In good times and _very_ bad. Until death do us part," Crowley says, not unkindly. "Angel, _you're_ the one for symbolism."

"My word, what a thing not to realize!" He pats down his pockets, searching for a ring, a bracelet— _something_ he can give. "I am so sorry, darling. Please forgive me."

"I can't always do all the work, you know."

"Absolutely, I know. I am trying, I swear it."

"Trying isn't always good enough," Crowley says. He stands framed under one of the arches of the bandstand, expression just as disbelieving as it had been back then. "You aren't very good at this." He says it like an apology.

"Please, I'll get it right," he begs. But he can't lift his feet to cross to where Crowley stands. He feels frozen in his own corporation, hands dangling useless at his sides. Tears drip down his face, but Crowley is unmoved.

"I keep waiting for you to catch up," he accuses. Now he's stepping back, sauntering vaguely away, even as he's still watching Aziraphale closely, searching for any sort of movement, any attempt to join him.

Aziraphale weeps, trying to move forward with all his might, but it's as though he's pressing against an invisible wall.

"Crowley, wait," he begs.

* * *

Warm hands squeezed and shook his shoulders.

"Aziraphale, wake up, come on," Crowley hissed, sounding like he was doing quite a lot to push down panic. The tone alighted a dozen different sympathetic responses in him, ranging from keen anxiety to righteous defense. It roused him enough to realize he was lying in bed, face mashed into his damp pillow.

"Oh," he exclaimed and pushed up to kneeling on clumsy arms just to prove he could.

"Shit, ok, so maybe sleep isn't that great of an idea," Crowley croaked out. At some point he must have left the bed because now he was standing beside it on Aziraphale's side, hands hovering near without touching. "You are two for two on nightmares."

Aziraphale took a few shuddering breaths and tried to will the lingering hysterical devastation from the dream to fade like the slowly melting imprint of his head on the pillow. He didn't think he could talk yet, but he groped blindly to the side for one of Crowley's hands. Thin fingers gripped his own without hesitation.

The touch was grounding in ways he didn't think he'd ever be able to articulate. Crowley hadn't given up on him in six thousand years—not when it counted—he reminded himself firmly. Even when he'd been spouting nonsense about running away, he'd turned up like a bad penny, or radiated enough miserable "come find me" energy that Aziraphale couldn't help but do so.

If he reached, Crowley would meet him. He was still learning how to return the favor in a consistent and timely manner, but Crowley provided so few opportunities to practice, and he was rather known to dither. Crowley really was so patient, and asked for so little.

And so, instead of taking the out so generously offered, he swallowed and confessed.

"No, it wasn't so bad as last time. The beginning of the dream was very good." He sighed and indulged in a pout. "You let me feed you cake."

When he chanced a glance up, Crowley was looking down on him, bemused.

"You dreamed about feeding me cake?" He sounded more bewildered than scandalized or put out, which Aziraphale took for a good sign.

"A lovely sacher torte." He gave Crowley's fingers a squeeze. "You always look so mortified when I try to offer you a bite of something when we're out, I stopped trying ages ago. I'm afraid my wildest dreams are rather tame."

"Hnngh."

Crowley looked a little poleaxed by the admission, but in a way that suggested Aziraphale might be able to get away with offering up a nibble when they were somewhere more private. Something to consider for the picnic he was determined to have when the weather turned passably warm again.

"Hnn, well… does that mean you want to try again?"

Aziraphale searched Crowley's face. He wished he could pluck the true significance of this whole exercise for Crowley straight from the demon's brain. By this point, he couldn't credit it as simply being a misplaced assumption that Aziraphale wanted to learn. It could be down to Crowley having a wild idea and needing to see it through if only out of sheer bloodymindedness. Aziraphale supposed he could always—

"My dear," he said before he let the paralyzing thought fully form, "I am coming to the conclusion that my learning how to sleep is perhaps more important to you than you're letting on." Sometimes jumping in headfirst before he had time to second-guess himself was the best way forward.

Crowley released an impressive deluge of outraged vowels and half-formed consonants.

When he didn't seem to be preparing to segue into a proper denial, Aziraphale shifted on the bed to face him head on. He fetched up Crowley's other hand, pausing a moment to relish the lack of flinch, and cradled both close to his chest.

"Crowley, I don't think I would like to try again without asking you to join me. I've been working up to asking, you see. It's the whole reason I agreed to try in the first place—that I might be able to… well, to tempt you. But I wouldn't want you to agree out of, oh, some sense of _obligation_. And sometimes you pull away if I get near, but other times you _don't_ , and so I don't know—" He blew out a breath through his nose. "What I _mean_ to say is, if you don't mind, I would very much like to know what all this means to you. Before I ask you. To sleep with me."

The hands in his were so unnaturally still he thought Crowley might have put his corporation into some sort of emergency stasis. And the longer the silence stretched, the more he could feel the hopeful tilt of his own eyebrows begin to sag.

Oh, botheration.

"You don't have to," he croaked. "I don't have to ask. We could forget this whole thing, if you like." He tried a reassuring smile but wasn't sure he pulled it off.

Crowley stuttered back to life with what sounded like a backlog of words grinding in his throat.

"No, angel, I, mmm, I don't. I mean, I _do_. I would, ah, I'd like to. Join you." He broke off with a full-body wince and tipped his face up toward the ceiling. "I thought it might be, eugh, a bit grand. Next time I'm feeling like a nap. To have some company. Didn't want to say anything in case it turned out you don't like sleeping." He tipped his face down just enough to catch Aziraphale's eye. "Didn't want _you_ to feel obligated," he admitted, rueful.

"Oh, dear, what a tangle."

"Yeah."

Aziraphale released one of Crowley's hands so he could turn and dramatically flip back the quilt and blanket on the open side of the bed.

"Well, this part, at least, is simple," he declared. "Dearest Crowley, I'd like to try sleeping again, and I'd like for you to join me." Asking for something so intimate so directly had his corporation fairly trembling with needless adrenaline, but he tipped his chin up with shaky victory all the same. He'd asked for a thing he wanted. Out loud!

"Of course, angel," Crowley said. He tried for an easy saunter as he circled to his side of the bed, but he had to try snapping twice before he was able to successfully change into his own black satin pajamas. Getting into the bed looked like a demonic attempt at whole-body origami, but Aziraphale decided to pretend not to notice as he snuggled back down under the quilt as well.

"Should I rub your back again?" Crowley asked, hushed, when they were both tucked in.

Aziraphale looked over and was struck by how much of Crowley's well-hidden softness was betrayed when he was cradled between pillows and velveteen. He couldn't prevent a soppy, delighted smile from spreading over his face.

"Actually, I was going to ask your feelings on spooning, and whether you would prefer to be the big one or the little one this time."

Something a little amazed and a lot vulnerable passed over Crowley's face. "This time, huh?"

"I think it's only fair to take turns."

"S'that so? Well, ahhhh, then…" He pressed his mouth tight and abruptly flopped over so his back was facing Aziraphale.

"Lovely," Aziraphale breathed and surged across the scant space between them. He pressed just as much of himself as he could against Crowley. With a stern suggestion to the mattress, he was even able to completely wrap his arms around Crowey's torso so he could hold him just as close as he'd been fantasizing about for… far longer than he cared to think on just now. This moment was for pressing the tip of his nose against the short hairs on the back of Crowley's neck and hearing the demon grunt in surprise.

"Had this bottled up for a bit, angel?" Crowley asked on a slight wheeze. He draped his arm over Aziraphale's and pinned it to his chest.

Aziraphale hummed happily and rubbed the tops of his feet against the soles of Crowley's, enjoying the smooth slide of the smattering of scales that were peeking through his corporation.

It took another few moments of adjusting to being quite so close in each other's space— aligning limbs and adjusting pillows and the quilt—but eventually they settled. Then, Aziraphale had nothing to distract him from the warm, solid weight of Crowley in his arms. Quite eagerly, he adjusted his breathing to match the steady expansion and contraction of Crowley's back against his chest. He let the sharp, hot scent of him slowly fill his head and the varying textures of soft hair, smooth skin, and slippery satin occupy the rest of his senses. He dedicated his entire focus to experiencing Crowley, close and safe and his to savor.

"Goodnight, angel," Crowley murmured, already sounding muzzy with impending sleep.

"Goodnight, darling," he whispered back, enjoying the feel of warm satin against his lips.

Crowley's body grew heavier and somehow even more precious in his arms as the demon slipped into sleep. It felt like an anchor gently dragging him down into serene, dark waters. Aziraphale held on, secure in the knowledge of a journey shared.

He slept through the whole night and dreamed of a cottage by the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, this fic fought me tooth-and-nail, and I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it. So, while I typically don't mess substantively with my fics once posted, I def reserve the right to come back and mess with this again at some later date when I have enough time and distance to be objective about it again--haha.
> 
> I was high-key tempted to be a troll and title this fic with some serious-seeming line from Mariah Carey's "Dream Lover," but in the end I went with a line from "Dreams" by The Cranberries because, _siiiiigh_ , it was more tonally appropriate.


End file.
